So I went, and it was as trendy as I would have expected; the kind of place where they offer you a drink when you check in, and your name is emblazoned on the wall in three colors of neon chalk with the other clients in your time block (Hello to Jane C! Mike F! Anita B! Susan P!). There's an eclectic mix of doodads hanging from the ceiling - things like blow-up beach toys and dreamcatchers and other totchtkes. Shereen, my hair artiste, took me to her station, and we both looked at my sad headful of follicles and talked about what it needed to be when it grew up. Then she handed me off to Quentin, who settled me into a massage chair, revved it up, floated a silky black reverse cape around me, and leaned me back for the shampoo.
This wasn't just any shampoo. It came attached to a scalp massage that was so luscious it had to be illegal in at least 10 states. And it went on, and on. Ohhhhh, Quentin. It was so indulgent, so delicious, so dreamy that I'm pretty sure I had that involuntary leg reflex that dogs get when you scratch them, and I really hope that gutteral noise I heard was coming from the woman getting shampooed across from me. At one point in my delirium I was even thinking I might try hanging beach toys and dreamcatchers from my own ceilings, it seemed like such a great idea.
But alas, like most heightened physical experiences, it ended too soon. I was led, blinking and woozy, to Shereen, who did, in fact, give me a great haircut. I happily paid a king's ransom for the experience, and will probably go back for my next cut, even though what I really want is ... well, you know. They had me at the shampoo.
© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
